Somebody That I Used To Know
by mellowship
Summary: Serena ignores. Chuck blames. Nate hates. Dan runs. Blair emerges from the rubble of her past unscathed, but when she meets a mysterious bartender with a familiar face, will her world turn upside down once more? Post-GG.
1. Chapter 1

**Somebody That I Used To Know**

* * *

><p><em>Summary: Serena ignores. Chuck blames. Nate hates. Dan runs. Blair emerges from the rubble of her past unscathed, but when she meets a mysterious bartender with a familiar face, will her world turn upside down once more? Post-GG.<em>

* * *

><p>There is nothing as stereotypically picturesque as Mid-October in Manhattan. The thick layer of brightly-hued foliage that covers the ground confirms it, as do the herds of young women clad in the ubiquitous fall uniform of thin leggings and Ugg boots, who clutch their pumpkin spiced lattes for dear life as they make their ways home from their respective college campuses. The late-afternoon sky is painted with violent streaks of deep orange, the final breath of a sun that's threatening to die another day.<p>

_It even _smells_ like October_, Blair Waldorf thinks, perched on a bar stool at The Roof Garden. She's nursing a chocolate martini, having decided to treat herself for a job well done hosting one of the city's hottest art exhibitions at her Park and 71st Street gallery the night prior.

At thirty-five years old, Blair's life has thus far been a unique mixture of success and regret. Six years ago, she'd returned the figurative keys to her mother's fashion house, Waldorf Designs. Eleanor had been disappointed at the time, but not shocked; over the years, Blair's obsession with fashion had waned to more of a middling interest and she had started to spend more and more time at the Met again, studying and admiring the timeless works of art like she had done as a young child.

A year later, Cornelia Galleria had been born. The initial success of the moderate-sized art gallery had been instantaneous due to the notoriety of its creator - and her husband, the billionaire hotelier Chuck Bass. "The saga of Chuck and Blair" (an often used tabloid headline) had spanned for nearly two decades. Long periods of turbulence had been dotted with intense moments of bliss that had become more frequent since the opening of Cornelia and the discovery of Blair's pregnancy. With news of the latter, Blair and Chuck had both thought they'd finally overcome their marital difficulties; they'd even planned a renewal of vows ceremony in St. Lucia.

That was, until the miscarriage. Blair had been four months along when they'd lost the baby due to a chromosomal anomaly. The aftermath could have only been described as chaos. Blair and Chuck, they'd both played the blame game. Vicious, even-toned accusations eventually turned into full-blown screaming matches, and the crystal Kate Spade wine glasses and precious Aalto vases that they'd received as wedding gifts had been the first to pay the price. After another six months, Chuck Bass had filed for divorce. The Waldorf-Bass union had been decimated, in the end, by a whisper of a defeat: "I can't do this anymore."

Blair hadn't quite been the same since the miscarriage and the divorce. She had isolated herself from friends, from family, from most aspects of life. The last time she'd spoken to her best friend Serena van der Woodsen or to her first love Nathaniel "Nate" Archibald had been at the former's thirty-second birthday dinner, wherein Blair had ruined the entire affair by imbibing one too many cosmopolitans and accusing the golden-haired girl of wishing ill of her pregnancy because _"you wouldn't know which guy was your child's father if you got knocked up because you're such a slut!" _

Nate had tried to step in and quell the argument. A drunken Blair, she'd taken this as a pledge of allegiance to Serena, and in retaliation, had announced that he had been cheating on his wife Delia with his lithe young intern. The field day that the tabloids had following the fiasco had been legendary. The Times, People Magazine, the New Yorker, they'd all skewered Mayor Archibald for his infidelity. Despite the revelation, Mrs. Delia Archibald had stuck by her man's side, intent on preserving the picture perfect image of the All-American couple. With that, plus the cheesy, PR-penned apology Nate had delivered on the steps of City Hall, New York City had quickly forgotten about the cheating scandal.

Nate hadn't, though.

After effectively burning nearly all proverbial bridges, Blair had fallen even harder into her depression. Her bulimia had resurfaced, evident in her puffy cheeks and watery eyes. Eleanor had tried to force her into inpatient treatment, but Blair had refused and instead immersed herself in Cornelia Galleria. She had begun working non-stop, renovating and networking and marketing and developing, and eventually, she had elevated the gallery to the number one spot on The New Yorker's "Burgeoning Businesses" list. The moment she'd found out had been the best in a long time. After reading a spotlight article on the business she'd built from the ground up, she had finally decided to take better care of herself in order to preserve her legacy.

After several months of intense outpatient treatment and countless meetings for nutritional and family counseling, Blair had begun to feel like her old self, full of acerbic wit and renewed hope for a fairytale ending. Three square meals and two snacks a day had kept her even-keeled, as did her weekly sessions with Dr. Sherman. On her thirty-third birthday, Blair, ready to make amends, had picked up the phone and dialed Serena's phone number, memorized since her teenage years. She hadn't uttered more than a "hi" before the blonde hung up. As for Nate, Blair had come to find out that he'd blocked her phone number after what tabloids dubbed "MistressGate".

So, despite having rehabilitated herself, Blair had still lost her friends. As a final attempt at preserving some sort of thread to her old life, she had tried calling Dan Humphrey. Unfortunately, Blair had quickly discovered that his number was no longer in service. Any line of contact to Dan had seemed to have disappeared with the writer eight years before.

For the next two years, Blair had continued to live, eat, and breathe her business. She had grown close again to her mother and had spent countless evenings visiting with and babysitting for her old family maid Dorota. She'd taken up Pilates and adopted a puppy, a Wheaton Terrier that she'd named D'Artagnan. Life had finally seemed to stabilize for the brunette, despite the seemingly unquenchable void that remained.

Blair shakes off the cobwebbed memories as she finishes off the rest of her cocktail. As she's learned in recent years, the ghosts of her past will always be in her mind's shadows. The October sky, once on fire, has slowly burned down to a dusky blue-violet. The canvas awning that shields the bar is lined with wires of little white lights, which now sparkle in the nightfall and reflect like diminutive moonbeams off of the rim of the crystal glasses. Glancing around the bar, the company around her seems to have diminished, happy hour effectively over. To her left is a middle-aged businesswoman with flaxen hair styled in a long bob. She is hovering over her cell phone, fingers furiously moving across the touch screen. A glass of scotch, neat, sits in front of her. Blair wonders what the woman's story is, what kind of struggles she's endured, how many lovers she has entertained. Blair knows, after all, that there is more to most people than meets the eye.

The brunette is jolted out of her thoughts as the bartender props an elbow on the bar-top and asks if she'd like another martini. "Sure," she replies absentmindedly.

"Alright, I'll have that right up for you." His voice is friendly, polite.

Shifting her gaze away from the businesswoman, Blair soon realizes that the original bartender, an older gentleman reminiscent of Andy Williams, must have ended his shift during her trip down memory lane. _This_ bartender, well, he's nothing short of handsome. Full lips and sharp brown eyes are punctuated by angled cheek bones and a chiseled jaw line. His dark hair is cut short and parted to the side. _Dean_, as his name tag reads, looks like a handsome soldier from the World War Two era. He looks like someone else, too.

Blair narrows her eyes. _It couldn't be. _Could it? "Hey, Dean," she says, his name dripping from her tongue like honey, slow and sweet and a little bit calculated. "You got a last name?"

The bartender shoots her a bemused glance. "Harrison" he replies as he pours the necessary liquors over ice and gives everything a good shake in his mixer. "Why?" He shakes the mixer once more for good measure before removing the top and pouring the cool concoction into a fresh new martini glass.

Blair is suddenly aware that she's been holding her breath all this time. "Just wondering," she shrugged, the corners of her lips tugging upwards into a smile. Not wanting the bartender to think she is hitting on him, Blair adds, "You remind me of somebody that I used to know."

Dean Harrison sets the freshly-made martini square in front of Blair, who accepts the drink with a polite smile. She anticipates him walking away to help the next customer. Instead, Dean grabs an old rag and begins wiping down the granite in front of her. "Ah," he answers, concentrated on his task. He pauses a beat, then looks up. An amused grin ghosts across his face. "Well, I hope that's a good thing."

Blair feels her cheeks color. A flip of her stomach indicates that she's feeling something she hasn't felt in quite some time: butterflies. It's been just over three years since Blair has last been with, or even thought of being with, a man, and this feeling? It scares her. Blair clears her throat, reaches into her purse for her wallet. "I shouldn't be asking you personal information while you're working," she deflects with a stiff smile as she hands Dean her AmEx Black Card. "I apologize."

"Don't worry about it," Dean says warmly as he accepts the card. Blair eyes him as he turns around and runs it. Handing the card back to her along with the bill to sign, his fingertips graze Blair's and her breath hitches ever-so-slightly. She withdraws her hand as quickly as it happens. Dean doesn't seem to notice. He leans forward on the bar-top, propped up on both elbows. "Between you and me," he continues, voice lowering, "I'd rather people try to get to know me as opposed to treating me like a servant. It's part of the territory, I get it, but a little humanity is always appreciated. So, thanks."

Blair scribbles in a generous tip and signs the merchant copy. "You caught me on a good day," she says with faux bravado.

"Oh," Dean chuckles, "is that what it is?"

_Damn it._ Her stomach is doing that weird flippy thing again and Blair is practically using superhuman strength not to stare at his lips. Drawing in a deep breath, Blair straightens her back and tucks her card back into her purse. Business as usual. She clears her throat and shrugs. "Can't be the Iron Lady all of the time. And speaking of time, I've got to run," she lies, unsure of what to make of the nervous sensation in her stomach. "Nice meeting you, Dean."

"But you haven't even touched your martini, Ms. Thatcher," Dean replies, gesturing to the full-to-the-brim martini glass.

Blair suppresses a smirk, impressed that the bartender understood her reference. Uncrossing her legs, she slides off of the stool and gathers her purse. "I hope you'll forgive me," she says as she makes her exit. The words, though innocent, come off far more coquettish than she intends.

_Oops._

The brunette takes long, lean strides across the stone floor, entirely too engrossed by the encounter with Dean to admire the sparkling view of the city from the rooftop. She remembers a similar sensation in the early stages of her romance with Chuck. As she reaches the glass door of the elevator, Blair glances over her shoulder towards the bar and finds Dean looking back at her. The bartender raises an arm, gives a short wave. Blair ducks her head in response, doing her best to contain the smile that's threatening to spread across her face. Just in time, the elevator arrives with a soft _ding_. Blair slinks through the doors and rests against the wall, the cool glass feeling refreshing to her warm skin. She sighs and runs a hand through thick, dark curls.

_What the hell was that?_

* * *

><p>AN: I haven't written a GG fic in a while and had a little down time at work. Though I'm not certain anybody will even read this given how long it's been since the show was on the air, I had fun with this. Those who have read it, please review and let me know what you think.

-C


	2. Chapter 2

**Somebody That I Used To Know**

**II**

* * *

><p><em>Summary: Serena ignores. Chuck blames. Nate hates. Dan runs. Blair emerges from the rubble of her past unscathed, but when she meets a mysterious bartender with a familiar face, will her world turn upside down once more? Post-GG.<em>

* * *

><p>After a short ten minute journey through the concrete jungle that is Manhattan, the black town car pulls up in front of 25 E. 77th Street. Colloquially known as The Mark, the luxury hotel is nestled in the heart of the Upper East Side and regularly hosts a motley assortment of wealthy individuals: investment bankers, fashion designers, renowned journalists. Blair has called the Penthouse Extraordinaire - a 5-bedroom, 7-bathroom space consuming the topmost floor of the hotel - home for the past three years. Although the penthouse had originally been an impulse buy following the divorce, Blair had quickly come to appreciate the under-ten-minute commute both the gallery and to the Met.<p>

Heels clicking sharply across the marble floor of the lobby, Blair gives a curt "hello" to the doorman before punching in her passcode on the silver plate near the elevator. The doors slide open, granting Blair access, and soon she reaches the top floor. Blair can hear D'Artagnan's little nails tap dancing across the floor as she digs in her Birkin for her keys. No sooner does she push the door open does the furry canine leap forward, both forepaws landing on Blair's thighs.

"Down!" Blair commands as she flicks the foyer light on. D'Artagnan obeys, his nub of tail wagging furiously as he awaits affection from his owner. Setting her purse down on the hallway table, she bends down and scratches the dog behind his ears before reviewing the checklist of chores completed today by her maid Sylvia. Pleased with the work done by the young Polish maid as of late, Blair makes a mental note to give her a raise as she takes off her shoes and pads towards her bedroom.

Shades of celadon and gold permeate every aspect of the room, from the plush carpet to the wanescotted ceiling. The walls are adorned with various paintings, mainly of French artists. Two vases of peonies sit on walnut nightstands on either side of the California king bed, introducing a pleasant floral scent into the air. The main accent of the room is a large gold-coated vanity, an heirloom from great-grandmother Waldorf that had been stashed away by Harold until recently. Blair had designed the room to evoke a sense of tranquility and elegance, and tranquil and elegant it is.

Blair slips into a pale pink nightgown before sitting down in front of the vanity. She begins plucking bobby pins from her hair, soft curls falling around her shoulders one by one. As she observes herself in the mirror, Blair contemplates tonight's interaction. More specifically, she contemplates Dean and his obvious ability to get under her skin in the worst – or is it the best? – possible way. Blair can't help the giddy smile that spreads across her face as she recalls Dean's effortless charisma and natural ability to match wits with her. As she considers these qualities, Blair realizes that maybe Dean shares more in common with Dan Humphrey than an uncanny resemblance. The connection she'd had with the bartender had been physical, intellectual, emotional. It had raised the hairs on the back of her neck like static electricity and had scared her because it had awakened something within her she'd thought she'd lost forever. Indeed, Blair finds her heart thundering in her throat the very thought of Dean Harrison.

Running a brush through her hair, Blair sighs, elation dimming at the reminder of her current situation._ So what if Dean turns me on?_ The brunette is well aware of the fact that she hasn't been intimate or so much as flirted with a man in years. Hell, she isn't sure she's even capable of opening up to someone like that anymore. Blair's miscarriage had been accompanied by the loss of her desire to be close to anyone and, as tragic of a realization as it had been at the time, Blair is now used to it. _Besides_, she rationalizes; _I'll probably never see him again_.

She is convinced, because she has first-hand experience with disappearing acts and coincidence. Her mind immediately shifts to Dan Humphrey, who had still been wholly in love with her when he had vanished from the Upper East Side after the Waldorf-Bass wedding a decade ago. He hadn't left so much as a letter to anyone; even Gossip Girl's intel had turned up nothing (though by that time, the group hadn't provided much gossip fodder for the mystery blogger anyway).

After all of these years, Blair still wonders from time to time "what if?". Her attraction to Chuck had been, for the most part, physical and monetary, though the two had shared an inexplicable emotional bond that had kept them coming back to one another despite all of the unspeakable things that happened in their relationship (mostly as a result of Chuck's poor decisions). Dan, though, he'd opened Blair's mind and showed her that love could be kind and gentle and honest. He'd taught Blair that passion wasn't always raging flames, but was sometimes instead embers slow-burning quietly in the background of the world's chaos.

As Blair sets her boar-bristled brush down on the vanity, she feels an overwhelming shroud of loneliness drape itself over her shoulders, weighing her down. Deciding to call it a night instead of ponder every memory she's ever made, Blair walks to her bed and tosses the decorative throw pillows to the floor. Curling up in bed beneath her down comforter, Blair feels D'Artagnan jump onto the mattress. She pats the bed and the dog circles around the blanket before settling down besides his owner. The dog sighs through his wet nose as he rests his chin on Blair's pillow. "Night Tannie," she whispers as she turns off the light.

* * *

><p>Light filters through the thin drapes as the sun makes its appearance in Manhattan. Blair groans as D'Artagnan licks her cheek before whining to go out. She leans over, looks at the clock to see <strong>9:00 AM<strong> staring back at her. Sitting up, Blair swings her legs over the bed and takes a moment before accepting the daunting task of getting out of bed.

D'Artagnan trails behind her as Blair plucks an outfit from her closet and ambles to the shower. When she's done, Blair changes into a pair of ankle-length pixie pants and a crisp white blouse. She styles her hair into a quick French twist and spritzes perfume on her neck. Once final glance in the mirror and she is ready to start her day.

Slipping the Louis Vuitton collar around D'Artagnan's neck and attaching the matching leash, Blair makes her way downstairs and out onto the busy Madison Avenue sidewalk. Saturday mornings are designated by long walks through Central Park, and the wheaten-colored pup leads, knowing exactly where to go. The brunette and her dog stroll leisurely beneath the cloudless October sky, a brisk wind rustling the hem of Blair's blouse here and there.

They're passing beneath Greyshot Arch when D'Artagnan begins to pull at his leash in an effort to reach the teeny Pomeranian up ahead. "Tannie!" Blair scolds, yanking back on the leash. The dog, more clever than most, comes to a halt before scootching backwards out of his collar. Before Blair knows it, he's galloping towards the little Pomeranian at full speed.

Blair runs after him (though Manolos aren't conducive to physical activity), and catches up to D'Artagnan just as the Pomeranian's owner kneels down to pet him. Both dogs are more curious than anything, and begin sniffing one another before exchanging licks.

"I'm so sorry," Blair apologizes to the woman as she bends down and slips the collar back over the Wheaten Terrier. "He's not usually like this, but I - " Blair stops mid-sentence when she turns to face the crouching woman on the pathway.

The woman is stunningly beautiful, despite the presence of deep smiles lines etched more so by the sun than by the hands of time. Lush golden waves cascade down her shoulders, framing her face seamlessly. Her eyes, a fierce blue, widen dramatically as she meets Blair's gaze.

Serena van der Woodsen hasn't changed a day.

Blair's stomach drops to the floor as she is faced with her old friend. She's so utterly stunned by the sight that the only thing she can think of to say is "I - I didn't know you got a dog."

_Nice one, Blair_. The brunette cringes visibly.

Serena's expression turns to stone. "A lot has changed in three years," the blonde responds coolly as she stands up, hand fluttering over the rounded hump of her belly.

"You're pregnant?" Blair asks, shocked.

"And I even know the father," Serena replies curtly, enormous engagement ring sparkling in the sun.

Blair's cheeks turn a violent shade of red. "I deserved that," she admits.

"Yeah, you did."

The next few moments are tense as the two women stand in uncomfortable silence. Blair feels so suffocated that she almost walks away, but instead, she holds her ground and, surprising them both, is the first one to speak. "I told you I was sorry, S. I meant it then and I mean it now. I took my anger out on you because of Chuck and…" She doesn't mean for it to happen, but her eyes dart to Serena's pregnant stomach. Flicking her gaze upward, she shrugs meekly. "You know."

"To even think that after being best friends for our whole lives that I would ever, _ever_ wish something so horrible on you, I – " Serena stops, shakes her head in agitation. "You know, I really don't think now is an appropriate time to be doing this," she says. Her expression softens a bit when she notices the stricken look on the brunette's face. The wheels are turning in the blonde's head as another bout of silence fills the air. After a long moment, Serena sighs in defeat. "Look, Blair, if you really want to settle things once and for all, meet me for dinner at Per Se on Monday. I leave town on Wednesday and won't be back for a long time. If not, I'm done. Just done. I can't keep thinking about this."

"Yeah, I know what you mean," Blair says softly before pausing. "If you don't mind me asking, where are you going?"

"Home." A wispy cobweb of a smile flutters across Serena's face before fading. "My fiance and I moved to New Haven a year ago." She shifts from one foot to the other, not quite knowing what to say next. "I thought someone would have told you."

Ah, New Haven, keeper of Ivy League dreams. Blair can't help but feel a little twinge of jealousy given the fact that she'd royally screwed up her only opportunity to move there. "Wow," she says, trying to impart warmth despite feeling utterly frozen. "A lot really _has_ changed."

Serena shrugs, sheepish and obviously uncomfortable with having to break the news to her former friend. She clears her throat and changes the subject. "So, dinner on Monday. Yes or no?"

Though already Blair senses the cold grip of inferiority on her mind, she puts on a confident face and smiles brightly. "Absolutely."

* * *

><p><em>AN: I'm thrilled with the response to the story and am so glad there are still some readers out there! Thank you to all who reviewed! A couple of things I wanted to address: _

_1. Dean will be central to the story. We will learn his backstory, who he is as a person. To everyone who is wanting to know if he's an OC or an undercover Dan or what... That will be one of the things that will become obvious as the story progresses. _

_2. I'm operating on the idea that Gossip Girl wasn't Dan, because, well, that was a dumb resolution to the show. GG doesn't play a huge part in this story by any means but I want to avoid confusion. _

_Alright, enough rambling. I'll try to have chapters coming out once a week or so. I can't guarantee, because life happens, but I'll do my best. _

_-C_


	3. Chapter 3

**Somebody That I Used To Know**

**III**

* * *

><p><em>Summary: Serena ignores. Chuck blames. Nate hates. Dan runs. Blair emerges from the rubble of her past unscathed, but when she meets a mysterious bartender with a familiar face, will her world turn upside down once more? Post-GG.<em>

* * *

><p>Monday morning brings with it all of the doom and gloom that's accompanied by the comedown from a good weekend. The sky stretched over Manhattan is a pallid gray, and from it falls thick, heavy drops of rain, which splatter relentlessly upon the city streets. Bright pops of color in the form of umbrellas strike a stark contrast against the monochrome scene as they bob up and down with the motion of people walking. An outsider might consider the image postcard-worthy; however, an outsider has likely not experienced the sensation of dirty water splashing upon the front of his Tom Ford slacks as a taxi driver races past.<p>

Though it's only eight o'clock in the morning, Blair is hard at work at Cornelia Galleria. She's hunched over her laptop, chestnut curls framing her face as she types furiously. Though the gallery isn't open until ten, Blair wants to get a head start on her week and catch up with unread emails and tasks from the week before left uncompleted. Lana Del Rey sings softly in the background as she works, husky voice mournful and appropriate for the dreary day.

The third email she opens is a request from a local artist to display, and hopefully sell, his artwork in the gallery. She scans the email quickly, readying in her head a response that will politely - but firmly - decline the request due to an existing high volume of art on the gallery walls. Her eyes widen at name on the signature line.

_Dean Harrison_.

"What in the Wal-Mart hell?" Blair murmurs to herself in disbelief.

Two days ago, Blair had been thinking that she'd never see the man again, and now, on a crappy Monday morning, she's staring at an email from Dean himself. She supposes it's a coincidence given the fact that she hadn't told him her name at the bar, but still, the little fairytale-loving girl inside of her can't help but wonder if serendipity is at hand. Blair leans back in her chair, crosses her arms. Chewing absentmindedly on her bottom lip, she ponders her next step.

Deciding to play it coy, Blair begins crafting her response letter. She types, deletes, and re-types the message several times before giving it one last look-over.

_Dear Mr. Harrison_,

_Thank you for your interest in Cornelia Galleria. The Gallery is home to quite a number of works crafted by several prolific artists. As a result of acquiring many new pieces in a short amount of time, we are nearing capacity for display. That being said, one of the primary interests of Cornelia is to support and bolster notoriety of local artists. Therefore, I would be pleased to meet with you here at the gallery to view some of your works. Please reply with your availability this upcoming week so that we can set up a time that works for both of us. You may also contact me via telephone during normal business hours at 212-752-1080. _

_Best, _

_Blair C. Waldorf_

_Owner and Curator_

Her index finger hovers over the mouse before left-clicking the "send" button. With a loud exhale, Blair reclines in her chair. She realizes that sure, she's playing a little bit of a game, but the rush of endorphins that flood her body when she thinks about Dean is exhilarating. After a moment, Blair minimizes the computer screen and picks up her phone, dialing her voicemail code.

No sooner than the first voicemail begins does the tinny _bing!_ of an email notification sound from Blair's laptop. The brunette turns to her computer, immediately drawn to the **(1)** next to the inbox folder. As it turns out, Dean Harrison is not only handsome, but he's also prompt.

_Ms. Waldorf, _

_Thank you for replying so quickly. I really appreciate the opportunity you've extended, and would love to show you some of my art. My schedule is wide open; I can come in as soon as noon today if that works for you. Please let me know. Thank you again!_

_Sincerely, _

_Dean_

A squeal slips from Blair's lips and she quickly stifles it, crinkling her nose at her school-girl giddiness. Although there is no one around to see her, Blair drops her shoulders, sits up straight in a gesture of propriety.

_Mr. Harrison, _

_Please come in at noon, then, and bring with you two of your art pieces. _

_B.C.W._

Dean's response comes in a blink of an eye.

_That sounds great! I look forward to meeting with you. _

_Dean_

Blair scowls. She quite enjoys the control of having the last word, but is stuck between her desire to respond and her desire to play hard to get. The latter proves to be more the more compelling choice, and so Blair closes her laptop and turns her attention back to listening to her voicemail box full of messages. Deep inside, though, she can hardly wait until noon.

As predicted, the rainy morning forces droves of people off of the wet sidewalks and into the gallery. Blair spends most of her time socializing with the patrons, a sickly sweet smile plastered on her face, causing her cheeks to hurt. That saccharine smile eventually pays off; she sells three paintings with hefty price tags to a salt-and-pepper-haired financier who practically begs to buy Blair too, with promises of expensive dinners and world-class trips. Blair certainly has no qualms about using her charm to bolster sales; her male patrons enjoy art in any form, and as Blair has been told many times, her beauty is, in itself, a work of art. In the case of this morning's sale, the three paintings have been created by the same artist, who will surely be thrilled at the paycheck he'll be receiving even after Blair takes her commission.

Noon comes quickly and the rain has died down to a soft mist. As Blair is preparing to lock the door for lunch, Dean suddenly appears, eyes concentrated on the ground. Chest heaving against his white Henley shirt, the man is slightly out of breath. Blair assumes it's from carrying the two enormous pieces of art sheathed in thick brown paper packaging.

"Do you need help?" Blair asks.

Dean's head shoots up at the sound of her voice. His gaze, undecipherable, lingers on Blair for a moment before he realizes she's asked a question. "Uh, no thanks," he mumbles. "I've got it…" his voice trails off as he struggles to prop both works of art on his thighs as he walks.

"Suit yourself," Blair shrugs, turning on her heel. "Follow me." As she walks ahead of Dean, tall on her jet black Christians, Blair finds herself smirking in amusement and anticipation.

She leads Dean to her office. With a grunt, Dean carefully sets both paintings on the ground. When he lifts his head, Blair can see the sweat glistening on his brow. "Have a seat, Mr. Harrison," she offers, gesturing to the plush red seat placed carefully in front of her desk. "I'm Blair Waldorf."

Dean clears his throat nervously. "Hi, Ms. Waldorf."

"Blair," she corrects.

"Hi, Blair." _Buh-lay-er._ Her name rolls delicately off of Dean's tongue, as if he is savoring its flavor in his mouth. It instantly makes her knees weak. He smiles, extends a hand. "I'm Dean."

Ignoring the gesture, Blair hurriedly moves past 'introductions'. "Would you like something to drink? You look as though you've had quite the workout."

A faint hint of color floods Dean's cheeks. "Water would be great," he answers.

Blair obliges. Handing Dean a crystal glass of San Pelligrino, Blair walks around her desk, manicured fingertips lightly tracing the wood as she moves. She's keenly aware of the sensuality in her motion and wonders - hopes - that Dean can see it as well. Taking a seat in her chair, she finds herself having to tilt her head down slightly to look at him. The elevated desk, the size differential between the chairs, it's all intentionally designed; a nod to Blair's commandeering presence. Dean certainly looks intimidated, she observes, but it's obvious that the man is surveying her as well. The way his brows knit together as he draws his espresso eyes down from her hair, to her eyes, to the bow of her lips… it's as if he's drinking her in, quenching a dire thirst.

"So, Dean," Blair starts. Her tone is purposefully curt and polite. Chaste words fanning lascivious flames. "What made you decide to contact this gallery instead of the dozens elsewhere in the city?"

Dean inhales. Exhales. "Your gallery is on the front page of every paper. On the top of every list. While you could be way more exclusive as far as the fame of the artists you feature goes... " He shrugs. "A lot of artists who wouldn't have gotten a shot at success have had the opportunity because of Cornelia and, I, uh… I just - "Abruptly, Dean stops. Shakes his head with an embarrassed chuckle. "I'm sorry but I'm getting really distracted."

"Why is that?"

"Your face."

Blair crosses her arms. "Well, gee, thanks," she drawls sarcastically.

Dean throws his hands up. "_Nonono_, that's not what I meant," he says hastily. "It's just... I remember your face. We met at the Rooftop last week. A face like yours is hard to forget."

Blair quirks an eyebrow but says nothing.

Dean leans forward, eyes narrowing. "You really don't remember?"

Blair shakes her head. Dean is practically stumbling over himself to elicit a response, which pleases Blair; the first time they met, she'd been pretty sure that it had been _her_ eagerness that had been obvious.

Her continued display of feigned ignorance clearly throws Dean off. "Well, this is embarrassing," Dean says. "I must have confused you for someone else."

Deciding that she's tortured the poor man enough, Blair gives in. "You know… you really resemble –"

"Let me guess," Dean interrupts. "An old friend of yours? You told me the same thing last week."

Blair pretends to think. "Ohhh," she perks up, "now I remember! You made me that lovely martini with the sugared rim."

"That you didn't even touch," Dean points out with a smile. "I'm glad you remember. I was starting to think I was being gas-lit for a minute there."

"Oh, you'd know if I was gaslighting you," Blair replies, playfulness edging into her voice.

Dean laughs. "Easy there, Gregory Anton."

_Gregory Anton?_ Blair's mouth opens in surprise. It shuts just as quickly as she composes herself with a barely perceptible tilt of the head. "You've seen _Gaslight_?"

"It's one of my faves," Dean says with a shrug. "Classic movies are kinda my thing."

Brows furrow. If Dean hadn't impressed her before, he had now. "They're kinda my thing, too," she murmurs. _And they _were _kinda Dan's thing,_ she thinks in passing. "So you consider yourself a connoisseur of the arts and humanities, do you?" the brunette asks.

"You said it, not me." He's joking, but there's an edge of pride to his voice that indicates that the man possesses a wealth of knowledge on the subject. There's a pause, and then all of a sudden Dean's eyes light up. He opens his mouth to speak and then shuts it again.

Blair notices this. "What?" she asks.

"'What' what?"

"What were you going to say?"

"It isn't important."

Blair slides easily back into her commandeering persona. "I'll be the judge of what's important here, Mr. Harrison."

Dean chews on his lower lip in thought. "I, uh… Well, I don't want to come off too forward, Ms. Waldorf – "

"Blair."

"_Blair_," Dean corrects himself. He pauses, clearly debating whether or not to verbalize his thoughts. "Okay, like I said. I don't' want to come off too forward, and if you don't want to I'll understand, but…" He trails off.

Blair is practically on the edge of her seat as she leans forward expectantly, hands clasped tightly in her lap

"Would you want to go to a midnight showing of _Rosemary's Baby_ on Halloween?" Dean finally asks. "Since you're classic film fan and all, I mean, and – "

Blair supposes it's uncouth, and perhaps a little too eager, but she cuts Dean off with her answer. "I would love to go."

Dean looks surprised. "You would?"

Blair flashes him a dazzling smile. "Who doesn't like getting the bejesus scared out of them on the scariest night of the year?"

"Touché," Dean agrees with a chuckle.

Blair's heart swells with an intangible feeling as she listens to Dean's laugh, warm and soulful, watches the soft lines around his eyes crinkle with his smile. It's as though she's known the man a million years. Dean's laugh soon dies down and silence fills the room. He's staring at Blair now, all traces of humor gone from his face, replaced with a smoldering intensity that has eluded Blair for years. She yearns to reach out and caress the sharp line of his stubbled jaw, to pull him close and bury her nose in the crook of his neck. To feel his two strong arms wrapped around her small waist in passion and protection. And Dean, he's running a hand behind the nape of his neck, drawing his tongue across his bottom lip. As if he is fighting the exact same urges as Blair. He leans forward, elbows propped on his knees. "I can't wait for Friday, Blair," he says lowly.

Blair crosses her left leg tightly over her right, particularly aware of the warm sensation growing in her lower belly. "Neither can I," she murmurs.

The tension hangs like static electricity, thick and heavy in the air.

"So…" Dean starts.

The corners of Blair's lips tug upward in a smile. "So…" She glances at the clock on her wall and realizes that they haven't even begun to discuss Dean's paintings. Not very professional, she thinks. "Show me what you've got, Dean." Dean looks taken aback. This amuses Blair. "I mean, show me your _paintings_," she clarifies.

"Not all of us are sophisticated enough to turn a blind eye to innuendos," Dean jests before growing serious. "You don't think there's a, uh, conflict of interest now, do you?"

"If I let just anybody hang up their 'art', this place would look more like the refrigerator of a middle-class mom with school-age children instead of the elite gallery that it is."

"Tough crowd."

"Exactly," Blair shrugs. "Not everyone gets a trophy, Dean."

"Fair enough." Dean turns to the bigger of the two paintings, unwraps it from its paper packaging. Blair can't see the painting in its entirety, as Dean is blocking it, but she can see bold gem-hued splotches along the top. After a moment, Dean steps to the side. The bright splotches of paint are actually city street lights – New York City to be exact, as made evident by the spire of the Empire State Building visible in the upper right-hand corner of the frame. An alleyway is in the center of the painting, sheathed on either side by dark apartment buildings with intricately drawn architecture. Walking along the alley is a blurry-faced man with a suitcase, back turned to the bright city lights. "It's called _Leaving New York_," Dean explains. "I've been working on this the better part of two years."

Crossing her arms, Blair studies the painting. She is amazed by the color and detail in the painting, but is particularly drawn to the feeling it evokes. "Hopelessness," she remarks.

"Excuse me?"

"To me, this man has given up on everything," Blair says softly, unable to tear her eyes away.

"Exactly," Dean nods. "The city swallowed him up and spit him out. Like it does to so many people in real life. It's essentially one man's failed American Dream."

Blair manages to break her gaze. She looks up at Dean. "Does he ever find happiness?"

Dean looks surprised by her question. "I guess I haven't really figured that out yet," he confesses.

"Well, I love it," Blair says. "It would be my honor to display this in Cornelia."

Dean breaks out into a huge toothy smile. His body relaxes in relief. "Oh, wow. I'm the one who's honored. I can't thank you enough."

"It's not a problem. Really."

"What about the other – "

Blair cuts Dean off. "I don't need to see the other one. If it's anywhere near as beautiful as this one, it belongs on the wall. Thank you for sharing, Dean."

Blair sticks out her hand, offering a handshake.

Dean obliges, reaching for her outstretched hand. Instead of shaking, he lifts Blair's hand and presses it softly to his lips. "The pleasure is all mine."

* * *

><p><em>AN: Man, life really did get in the way the past few weeks. I got a full-time job in the career of my dreams! Needless to say, I've been really busy. Anyway, I hope you all enjoy this chapter. Let me know what you think!<em>

_-C_


	4. Chapter 4

**Somebody That I Used To Know**

* * *

><p><em>Summary: Serena ignores. Chuck blames. Nate hates. Dan runs. Blair emerges from the rubble of her past unscathed, but when she meets a mysterious bartender with a familiar face, will her world turn upside down once more? Post-GG.<em>

* * *

><p>Blair leaves work early, knowing that she still has to prepare for dinner with Serena later in the evening. When she gets home, Sylvia is still there, tidying up the foyer. Blair asks her to take out D'Artagnan, and the pretty Polish maid obliges with a curt nod of the head.<p>

Left in silence, Blair lets the exhaustion of the past few days sink into her bones. So much has happened – she's met a man, planned a _date_ with said man, ran into her ex-best friend, and will soon be meeting with ex-best friend to rehash old arguments over fine French dining. Making her way into the living room, the brunette glances at her watch. Noting the time – 3:51 – Blair decides to settle onto her maroon chaise lounge chair and relax for a little while before beginning the arduous process of getting ready.

Blair sighs, contented as her head falls back, espresso curls splaying across the plush fabric. She removes her high heels with a dainty flick of each foot before drawing her legs back into a folded position. The chair is oriented such that the Blair has the perfect view of the city, which has been magically transformed by a plethora of brilliant Autumn hues. Gazing out of the window absentmindedly, Blair senses her limbs growing heavy. Slowly, slowly, slowly, her eyelids begin to droop, and the brunette soon surrenders to sleep.

* * *

><p>"<em>Do you, Charles Bartholomew Bass, take Blair Cornelia Waldorf to be your lawful wedded wife?" the priest presiding over the wedding asks. "To have and to hold, for richer and for poorer, in sickness and in health, for the rest of your days until death do you part?" <em>

_Chuck gazes at Blair in admiration. Squeezes her hands between his. "I do." He slides the silver band they'd picked out over Blair's ring finger. _

_Blair smiles warmly. The smile is wiped off of her face as she locks eyes with Dan Humphrey. He's sitting there in the front row, dressed in a black suit, hair slicked to the side. His countenance is stony, but behind the mask Blair can see the truth. He's completely and utterly devastated._

"_And do you, Blair Cornelia Waldorf, take Charles Bartholomew Bass…" The priest's voice is drowned out by the blood rushing in Blair's ears. Her palms begin to sweat, pulse racing, and no matter how hard she tries, she can't rip her eyes away from Dan's. _

"_Blair!" Serena hisses, startling Blair out of her trance. _

_Blair looks around and notices that people are looking at her expectantly. _Chuck _is looking at her expectantly. She'd been so distracted that she hadn't even been listening. _

_Blair supposes this is her cue. This is what she's been waiting for since she first slept with Chuck in the back of the limo. This is the reward for all the emotional devastation and heartache she'd endured. "I do," she says forcefully._

_The priest nods. "Is there anybody here who can provide good reason why Charles and Blair should not be wed? Speak now, or forever hold your peace." _

_The audience is silent. Dan leans forward in his chair, hands clasped together, right foot tapping anxiously. Blair watches him chew on his lower lip, open his mouth as if to say something. _

_Despite the fact that she is finally getting the happy ending to her unconventional fairytale, the one she's dreamed of since she'd been a child, a small, secret part of Blair is hoping for something else. She won't allow her mind to even _think _it, but that little part of her deep down in the depths of her heart knows. _

Say it, _she begs silently_, Come on, say it!

_Not a word spills from Dan's lip. The expression on his face is one of resignation, and Blair feels that little spark of hope extinguish. She breaks her gaze and turns to face Chuck, who grins at her with the twinge of boyish smirk she's accustomed to seeing. _

_She takes a deep breath, ignores the nagging feeling in the pit of her stomach. The warmness of Chuck's hands begins to sooth her and the look of pure adoration in his eyes reassures her. _

_Everything will be okay. It has to be okay._

_The priest begins to speak again. "By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife. Charles, you may now kiss your bride." _

_Chuck grasps Blair's waist and pulls her close to him. His other hand entangles itself in her hair and brings her face to his. They kiss, deeply and fully, and when they break apart, Blair suddenly feels changed. _

_She's a wife now. She's Mrs. Bass. And like everything else she does, Blair knows she will be the best damn wife there is. _

_Between the clapping and the cheering, Blair can't even hear her own thoughts. She and Chuck begin walking down the aisle. A laugh escapes from Blair's lips. She smiles, looking around the crowd at everyone who she and Chuck proved wrong. _

_Then she notices the empty seat. _

_Dan is gone. And so is that piece of her heart._

…

…

…

_It's been a month to the day of her wedding and Blair is laying quietly in her – in Chuck's – king-sized bed. Beside her, her new husband is sleeping peacefully, tiny snores audible with each inhale. While Chuck remains in a deep slumber, Blair is exhausted; she'd spent all night tossing and turning. They'd spent last night arguing because Chuck had taken out a client to a burlesque club. He'd come home drunk and wanting sex. Blair had turned him down given his inebriated state. "You never support me," he'd slurred angrily as she had put him to bed. "Never had, never will."_

_One month ago, she'd said yes. She'd committed to Chuck for life, and he still hadn't learned to appreciate everything she'd done - and continues to do - for him._

_Blair turns her head, looks at the sleeping Chuck. She examines the features of his face, his strong brows and wide-bridged nose. Inhales his familiar musk. Suddenly, overwhelmingly, Blair feels something swell in her heart. It's the feeling you get when you run into your first love: a surge of affection entwined with powerful nostalgia, one inextricable from the other. It's at that moment that Blair realizes that she's made the biggest mistake of her life: she had married Chuck Bass not because she'd still been in love with him, but rather because she had loved the _idea_ of him. Of them. Of being _that _couple, that magnetic couple on the primetime TV show that you can't take your eyes off of even when they're at their worst. Of being high school sweethearts that have the odds stacked against them and come out the other side better and stronger than before. Of being the princess and the dark knight, the good girl and the bad boy who is changed forever by her. _

_Reality settles in. Blair knows now. Despite the proclamations and gestures of love, there will always be another selfish decision, another Jack Bass, another reason that she will be blamed. It's a matter of when, not if. People say that some fairytales don't have a happy ending. Blair wonders if that's true. She doesn't want to be an example, a statistic, of what _not _to do, though. How would it look to others? How much time would have been wasted?_

_Right there and then Blair makes a promise to herself. She promises to throw herself into this marriage, to dedicate herself to learning how to love Chuck for who really he is, to build the life and family she's always wanted. She's going to write her own damn happy ending, because… well, what's the alternative?_

* * *

><p>Blair awakens with a startle, unsettled by the memories that had flooded her unconsciousness. Dusk is starting to fall already, signified by the illumination of lights across the city, bright against the watercolor of purples and blues that is the sky. She looks down at her watch to see that it is already 5:30. She's supposed to meet Serena at 7:00!<p>

"Damn it!" Blair curses under her breath, sure that if she is late for dinner tonight, she will lose her chance to clear the air with Serena. Hurrying to her bedroom to shower and change, Blair is thankful that she will not be left alone with lingering thoughts of her dreams tonight.

* * *

><p><em>AN: I know that it's a short chapter, but these are key events that happened in Blair's past that give insight into her feelings, personality, and relationships with others. I especially wanted to highlight her relationships with Chuck and Dan. As always, let me know what you think! Thank you guys so much for sticking with this story. _

_-C_


End file.
